Not About Oranges
by Tanzy Morrow
Summary: Dean's driving lands the boys in Florida. Sam wonders why. One shot.


Sam watched his brother step outside the car, cocky moves muted, eyes wide with childish glee. He looked like a kid in a goddamn toy store, he thought sourly. Squinting a bit, he tried to guess at what had caught Dean's attention. This in itself was hard since Dean, when not working, had all of the focusing power of a goldfish. For all he knew, his older brother was captivated by the sight of the slowly swaying palm trees set against the rolling Atlantic... On the other hand, Sam knew it was more probably the overly tanned woman in the tiny bikini passing by the Impala. Muffling his urge to sigh, he shoved the heavy door open and stepped out, turning to lean on the top of the car, arms folded, and fixed a steely gaze on Dean. "And we're in Florida why again?" 

"Huh?" With obvious effort, Dean pulled his gaze away from another woman, this time pairing a halter top with obscenely-tight jeans.

Sam felt the Eye Roll coming on and let it go full-throttle. "Dean," he muttered, "we're in Florida. For a job." He straightened and motioned vaguely to include everything from the skyline to the multitude of passing motorcycles to the cotton-candy-pink motel beside them. "Why are we in a place called Titusville that just happens to be a half hour away from Daytona Beach? On so-called Bike Week?"

"A job." Dean smiled, bright and innocent. He held the look for about a minute and then heaved a sigh, looking skywards as if begging patience. "Sam, come on. Honest. I wouldn't bring us down here for nothing. This is serious stuff."

"So what is it?"

"Shut up." Pushing his door shut, Dean circled around to the back of the car, neatly popping the trunk with a practiced hand and retrieving the tattered duffle bag of their clothing. "C'mon. Let's check in."

Sam glanced up at the unlit neon sign. Then he took in the extreme pinkness of the building beneath it. A lone flamingo kept the white cement statue of a mermaid sunning herself on a rock company outside the door of the office. The white rocks scattered within the scalloped cement border gleamed, threatening snow-blindness. From where he stood he couldn't be sure but he had a feeling that the inground pool behind the cheap plastic-link fence would have its inside painted bright blue and maybe, if God above smiled on Dean, it would have chipping faux Mediterranean tiles along the edge. "Y'know, Dean," he began carefully. "We've stayed in a lot of, um, inexpensive places..."

"But this is the coolest, right? I know." Dean swung the bag onto his shoulder, pushed the trunk shut, and sauntered past Sam with a bright smile. "I rock."

"... Dean, it's called The Sunset Motel... And it's pink. With a flamingo. And a mermaid. Are you -sure- we didn't fall through the television set or something?"

"You could just say thank you." Sighing, Dean shook his head. "Dude, you've got no style. Promise me one thing, huh?"

"What?"

"Don't embarrass me in there."

Sam stared at his brother, knowing that his jaw hung slack and not caring. Embarrass -him-? He somehow doubted that was even possible. At least not since Dean had gotten past the age of seventeen; the intervening years had seen to it that Dean did all his own embarrassing. The best he, Sam, could shoot for was playing along with the all-too-frequent assumption that they were a couple and doing that too often tended to wake him up at night, screaming silently in terror. Sighing heavily, he shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched after his older brother in resignation. Maybe the story would be a good one, after all, and a pink motel couldn't be any worse than some of the other places, right? It was Florida. Sunshine and fresh air and beaches. The sign said air conditioning. That was a step up at least.

* * *

Sometimes it was really, really hard being the sensible one. At least that's how Sam thought of himself. He was the sensible one, the one who looked before he leaped, the one who was put on the planet to cross t's and dot i's and, now that he was with Dean again, the one to police the magnificent construction of faux pas that was his brother. Taking a deep breath, Sam sat down at the rickety little table provided in their room and carefully opened his laptop. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of him clicking keys and adjusting things as Dean cheerfully stood at the window, curtains thrown wide so he could better watch the scenery.

Finally, he moved to prop his elbows on the table; it shook in a malevolent manner, forewarning danger to his precious computer. He studied Dean's back. "So," he began in what he hoped was his most reasonable voice, "there is no job here. You just wanted a vacation. Am I getting this right?"

"Pretty much." Dean shrugged, back still offered. "No wonder you're the smart one."

"... I'm going to have to kill you now."

Dean twisted to look over his shoulder and he grinned. "What was that, Sammy?"

He considered repeating it, decided that it would just make Dean laugh, and shook his head. "Nothing." Tapping another few keys, he frowned a bit, surprised. "Hey, did you know this place has wireless?"

"Yeah. Figured you'd need it."

Sam decided he was touched by the unexpected thoughtfulness until Dean added, "Gotta get your geek fix, right? Hit your -special- chat rooms." Then he considered the maiming option again because, when Dean said special in that way, it pretty much meant cybering or websites that included feather dusters and midgets or something. Hunching over his keyboard, Sam settled down to payback.

* * *

"... Sam, I'm seriously going to have to kill you now."

Sam turned dewy eyes of innocence on his older brother; it was a hard facade to maintain as they squelched through a gully by the side of the small highway, mucky water wicking up their jeans. "Why's that, Dean?" he asked sweetly.

"Remember a conversation we had about fun once? How we're allowed to have it?"

"Uh huh. It involved a girl in really short shorts."

"Bingo. There were -lots- of girls in short shorts back there. There are absolutely none here." Dean looked around, pausing to take in the dreadful flatness of everything, the scraggly bush, the sensation of cars occasionally zipping by on the road beside them. He felt the mud trying to eat his boots. "And, by the way, something smells pretty freakin' rank."

"Probably duckweed... Or dead things." Sam ducked his head to hide a grin. "Oh, and look out for alligators. I hear they like these little ditches. Did you know that a twelve-foot gator has bite power that's pretty much equal to the weight of a small pick-up truck? Seriously. Massive. If they clamp down and don't want to let go, well..."

"-Dude-, you can stop that now." Turning, Dean snatched the duffel bag from Sam's shoulder and quickly rooted through it before withdrawing the sawn-off shotgun. Then he tossed the bag back, alertness written all over his face as he once more scanned the area. Cracking the gun open, he checked the chambers; they were empty. He held out a hand in clear expectation of shells. "So what bug died up this spook's butt?"

No shells were forthcoming; Sam wasn't an idiot. "Too much fun."

There was a moment of near-audible blinking as Dean processed that. Finally, he clicked the gun closed again and turned in slow motion to meet Sam's blank face. "Sam..." He paused heavily. "Sam, I'm going to tell Bertha at the front desk that you wanna take her to a poetry reading."

Next thing Sam knew, he was flat on his ass in the stagnant water and laughing his head off as Dean stomped back through the gully and then nearly fell on his own ass in his attempt to scramble up the side to the road. So what if he was wet and filthy now, too? The look on Dean's face? Just like a Visa commercial.

Priceless.


End file.
